Look At Me
by Fox Murphy
Summary: Alastor’s words have been grumbled and slow since he returned from St. Mungo’s, his eyes trailing over the carpet, the furniture, anything but her face, and it’s driving Minerva slowly insane.


A/N - So this was originally part of a series of drabbles done for the Speed Drabbles Contest over at the first_order comm. I wrote a total of 20 drabbles, and this one was by far my favorite. I'm becoming quite attached to this pairing. You should probably expect a lot more of these fics from me lol. The prompts I used were Fair of face/Alastor Moody (bet you didn't see that coming, did you?) and somehow 400 words did not seem like nearly enough. Thus I expanded the drabble and we have this fic here. One shot, takes place during First War era. I own absolutely nothing, in case you were wondering. But you should totally read, review, and most importantly enjoy!

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_"Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And thus winged Cupid is painted blind." - William Shakespeare_

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Alastor's words have been grumbled and slow since he returned from St. Mungo's, his eyes trailing over the carpet, the furniture, anything but her face, and it's driving Minerva slowly insane. He's been putting his Auror skills to use, sneaking about the house like a ghost unseen, save for when she catches a glimpse of his feet on the stairs or his back the door closes behind him. She knows all about what happened, everyone does. The attack occupied the sole topic of Order conversation for days afterward. A few had convinced themselves that the event proved wholeheartedly that Alastor Moody was indeed invincible. To Minerva, the attack has proved that Alastor is entirely, undoubtably human. She knows all about the Death Eaters and what they did, all about the Aurors who died and the terrible danger. And she knows all about the injuries, even though Alastor has done his best to keep her from seeing. She's watched him talking to the boys in the Order, who treat his scars like some prized medal they can only hope to one day achieve. Potter and Black, the Prewetts and Dearborn, all eye the scars with hopeful appraisal, and she's half afraid James and Sirius are going to see if they can't perhaps give themselves such spectacular war wounds. And with them he's always the same as he was before, gruff and sharp and loving in his own way, blustering around and spouting off lines about vigilance and watching your back. He wears the scars like a badge of honor because that's what these boys need to see. They are fighting a war, and Alastor is one of the esteemed generals, and the loyal soldiers cannot afford to see him as anything but unshakeable. But around her, he's always hesitant, half-turning his face away to hide the damage, and she knows his act with the boys is just that - an act. He's embarrassed, more ashamed of the scars than he's willing to admit, and Minerva knows it's because he's afraid she won't look at him the same way anymore. That this will change everything, ruin everything, and he's already prepared himself for what he deems the inevitable. He's already planned to surrender before the fighting ever starts. Which is precisely why Minerva catches him alone in the kitchen one day when all the boys are gone and only she and Alastor remain at headquarters. He's fumbling through a half-hearted cleaning spell when she comes into the room, footsteps loud on the cracked linoleum, drawing his attention before she had intended. One hand has drifted to his wand on the counter, a reflex she fears he will never lose, no matter when this war ends. He's more scarred than anyone can see. Abandoning her original plan, Minerva crosses the kitchen until she stands well within his personal space and he's fighting the obvious urge to back away.

"Hello Alastor."

"Oh, Minerva, sorry, I was...I was just trying to clean up a bit, and I..." his eyes drift back to the countertop, tense and nervous and half-turned away. She can only tolerate a moment of his mumbled speech and his downcast eyes, of the hand that has strayed over the damaged side of his face, before she reaches out and jerks the hand away. He's stunned and embarrassed, his face rapidly reddening, and for a moment he looks angry. Then the anger passes and he's only sad, half-heartedly trying to tug his hand free and already turning away.

"Don't Minerva. Just...don't."

His movements, his expression, both are heartbreaking to watch, and Minerva puts a gentle hand to his chin and turns his face toward her once more. The scarring is terrible, no one can deny that. But the scars have not changed who he is, and for a moment Minerva sees the boy he had been during their school days, not exactly fair of face but handsome and dark eyed and dashing in his own way. That boy has been gone a long time, but some of his same self-consciousness lingers in the way Alastor's eyes are watching her confusedly, in the way he almost looks like he's trying desperately not to hope, because he thinks he's too broken to be worth anything.

"When will you learn, Alastor Moody, that I love you, and all the scars in the world won't change that?"

"Look at me!" his shouted plea echoes in the empty kitchen, the words as pained as the expression on his face. Silence beats for a moment, then two, as he finally, deliberately, turns the scarred half of his face towards her. This is the first time he's showed her willingly, and even though he knows she's already seen, Merlin, she just looked, he's still trying to scare her.

"Look at me," the second time the words are soft and resigned, his eyes losing their fire as he realizes she refuses to be scared away, that she is not the sort of woman who abandons a lifetime of love simply because of a few terrible scars. This time it's simply a begging plea, an effort to make her understand, to make her see.

Her hand moves from his chin to his cheek, cupping the damaged side of his face, and he leans into her touch, eyes closed and whispering her name. She thinks he might be whispering other things too, a jumbled mess of apologies and Merlin knows what else. And she kisses him, not the dashing boy he was but the scarred man he is now, gently tracing over the scars with her fingertips. He responds like a drowning man who finally finds sweet, clean air, rising for the first time above the crush of unforgiving sea. His hands are in her hair, hers are still on his face, and she can feel warm wet tears trailing across her fingers. They break apart after an eternity, deep breaths and trailing kisses. His forehead is pressed to hers, eyes closed once more, and he's holding her close again, like he did before the attack. Delicately, infinitely careful, she takes hold of his face again, parting the space between them just enough that she can fix him with a gently pointed look. His eyes open slowly, and there are the remnants of tears on his cheeks as he watches her, uncertainty and disbelief painfully evident in his eyes.

"You mean it, don't you?" Alastor's words are slow, as though he's afraid if he says the wrong thing the words will break whatever spell has fallen and the moment will be lost. Minerva smiles and brushes a stray tear from his cheek, smiling softly.

"Do you love me?"

The question is unexpected, catches him off-guard, and he blinks twice before he's nodding emphatically, pressing his lips to hers once more.

"With all my heart."

Some part of her that had been afraid he no longer did, that had been terrified of losing Alastor entirely, vanishes quietly into the darkness in the wake of warmth and life and love. No more words are required because he finally understands that she will not leave him. They stand in the kitchen, him leaned against the wall, her wrapped safely in his arms, happy and peaceful in the moment. She knows that later, he will never admit to having cried, and she will never admit to having seen anything resembling a tear. Later the rest of the world will return and bring with it the war and all the darkness. Later there will be more dangerous missions, more uncertainty, more scars. For now though, there is only sunlight in the kitchen, blessed silence, and Alastor's arms around her. He's not a dashing teen anymore, hasn't been for a very long time. He's a stubborn, scarred, badly damaged man who loves her still. Her fingertips trail over the scars again, unfamiliar lines and ridges on a long-familiar face. Instead of fear or shame or doubt, his eyes hold only a surprised wonder, watching her with a tenderness that would astound the boys in the Order. And then she's kissing him again, or he's kissing her, and the rough scars that brush against her skin don't matter at all.


End file.
